Write About You
by Aelfay Sparrow
Summary: Written for a prompt by LestradeBBC on tumblr: "writer lestrade meeting mycroft and thinking he'd be a perfect muse for this character study he's writing" I may have messed with it just a tad.


Lestrade first met Mycroft over the comatose form of his brother. There was dried vomit on one of his trouser legs, his hair was unwashed, and he'd worn the same suit jacket for three days. He'd been working a tough case for five days, had about 10 hours of sleep in that span of time, and had finally gone to ask for help from Sherlock Holmes only to find him nearly incoherently high on an overdose.

Despite all this, all he could think when he saw the dapper man in the door was, "oh, I need to write about him." (Which was inconvenient, because it meant that he missed Mycroft introducing himself, and ended up just calling him "the umbrella man" in his head for the next three months, whilst simultaneously berating himself for what an idiot he must have looked, mouth gaping over the hospital bed.)

You could hardly blame him, though. Mycroft was worthy of some slackjawed staring and daydreaming, if only for the precision tailoring of his suit. Lestrade would find himself working another hard case, wishing Sherlock wasn't still locked up in rehab, and then remember the flash of sharp eyes over a similarly sharp nose, and completely lose his train of thought. (It was hardly his fault, he'd tell himself. He was low on sleep, obviously.) It didn't help that his marriage was floundering.

He met Mycroft maybe twice in the span of the three years it took for his marriage to reach the grave. He wrote three short stories and a novellette about a man with an umbrella and a penchant for long words (and then stuffed them all in a folder and tucked the folder in his briefcase and tried to ignore their existence). Also within those three years, he met John Watson (ignored John Watson's gun), watched Sherlock get off drugs, and then watched Sherlock jump off a roof.

So his marriage wasn't the only thing that reached a grave.

He sent flowers to Mycroft's club, hoping they'd reach him and simultaneously hoping the courier would accidentally destroy them (because after all flowers don't really make anyone feel better after a loss, and his flowers were just plain daisies because that's all he could afford after being demoted during the investigation into Sherlock's involvement, and daisies were so simple next to Mycroft's elegance that surely he'd be more insulted than comforted, so why the hell did he think they would be good, but on the other hand he had no idea what else to send and he didn't want Mycroft thinking he didn't care, and bloody hell he needed to rest).

It came as a surprise when he got to NSY to find his position reinstated and a cream-coloured card on his new (old) desk, simply stating, "thank you for the sympathies" in small type in the center. He was confused for a moment before he held the card up to the light and saw the watermark. "MH". He snorted and almost threw it out, but then tucked the card in his drawer. (It was good luck, he told himself, and not at all because the paper was soft and smelled like old books and fine wood and a hint of cologne.) He sat down at his new (old) desk and looked at the familiar walls, glad to be back, and pulled out some paperwork and a legal pad, only to find himself scribbling down a one-shot about a very dapper man and a cosy night by the fire.

He caught himself, frowned, and crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the bin. (Two hours later he found himself digging through a completely full bin of paper to find it, smoothed it out, and carefully stuck it in his folder in his briefcase with the rest.)

The next day he got a half-day off. His superiors were still figuring out some of the paperwork for his promotion back to DI, so the afternoon was empty. He went to the library, hoping to find a good corner and curl up for a bit, and thought he was doing quite well before a throat cleared above him and he snapped awake.

"Sorry, sir, we're closing down," the petite librarian told him sternly, and he nodded frantically, grabbing his coat.

"Right, yeah, sorry, sorry," he muttered, feeling like a right twat, and hurried out the door. It wasn't until his flat door closed behind him that he realised he'd left his briefcase at the library, and he'd have to go back in the morning. He slammed his coat onto the hook, kicked his couch (which hurt his foot), and stomped into his room, muttering "dammit" under his breath with each step.

The next morning he came by the library to pick up his briefcase, but it wasn't by the chair. He asked the librarian, and she checked the lost-and-found, only to come back shaking her head. Lestrade began to panic a bit; it had nothing that couldn't be duplicated, but things that weren't meant to be seen by anyone other than NSY personnel. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that the briefcase had a lock, but it didn't really make him feel better.

He spent the entire tube ride to NSY cursing his rotten luck, only to open the door to his office and find his briefcase next to his desk, right where he normally set it. He frowned. He could have sworn he'd taken it to the library with him. He picked it up carefully, trying not to jostle it, and turned to leave his office when a smooth voice startled him and nearly made him drop the case.

"I assure you, Detective Inspector, I have no reason to plant any sort of explosives within your personal belongings."

Lestrade blinked at the man who calmly stood at the door to his office, thought hard for a second and a half, and then sat down on his desk with a thump, clutching the briefcase to his lap. "Fuck," he swore ferverently, then bit his lip and looked up at Mycroft, who would almost seem unmoved except for the corner of his mouth had moved up ever so slightly. "I suppose you read it all, then?" Greg asked, feeling his heart sink.

"On the contrary," Mycroft assured him, and Greg's hopes began to slowly rise. "My assistant read the papers within your case, told me that I should enquire as to their precise contents, and then promptly kicked me out of my own office and informed me that you would be free today, or the superintendent of New Scotland Yard would be summarily displaced. As your superior seems to be in his office, I think I can conjecture that you have the day off."

Greg blinked, processed, groaned, and curled so that his forehead hit the metal clasp of the briefcase on his lap. "Fuck," he swore again (and honestly, he could sense Mycroft's brow lifting).

"Surely it cannot be that upsetting to spend a day with me?" the man asked, and Greg's head shot up.

"No, that's not it, it's just... Aren't you going to ask me about..." he stopped talking and looked down at his briefcase, making a grimace at its black exterior. Traitor, he thought savagely at the lock, even though he was certain that Mycroft's people could open anything they wished.

"I'd very much like to," Mycroft said softly. "But it seems to upset you, and did not seem to worry my assistant about any threats to my person, so I think I shall wait. At least until you've had a decent breakfast."

Greg looked at Mycroft, pursed his lips, and stood up. "Well, in that case... No pun intended," he sighed, "lead on."

The car was posh, the cafe was posh, and Lestrade felt entirely out of his depth - until Mycroft started talking. Suddenly they were discussing everything from the latest case to economics to art, and Greg felt himself relaxing as the morning flowed by, caught up in the easy conversation and friendly atmosphere. Mycroft was just as polite and educated as Greg had imagined he was, but he had a way of speaking that made Greg feel that he wasn't being looked down on or condescended to for his country accent and lack of public schooling.

He was amazed when he looked down and noticed all of his food was gone, and wondered when he'd eaten it, then gave a large sigh and pulled his briefcase off the floor. He opened it on his lap and pulled out a manila folder, snapping the case closed and setting it back down next to his seat before sliding the folder across the table to Mycroft, who seemed surprised.

"You said after breakfast," Greg explained gloomily, "I'm just beating you to it."

Mycroft nodded slowly, wiped his fingers one last time, then pulled the folder toward him and flipped it open. Lestrade winced and busied himself with staring at the other patrons of the restaurant, every so often glancing out of the corner of his eye to see Mycroft skimming the pages. He felt he'd been waiting forever, but Mycroft hadn't said a word, and then Lestrade heard a rustle of paper and the click of a pen cap, and couldn't help himself looking.

To his surprise, Mycroft was frowning intently at a crumpled piece of yellow paper, and writing with a fountain pen in broad strokes. Lestrade blinked confusedly for a few minutes as he waited for Mycroft to explain what he was doing, but then Mycroft simply slid the paper over to him.

Greg opened his mouth to ask what was going on, then shut it and looked down at the paper in his hand and began to read, eyes widening with each line.

Three things passed through his mind:

A) Mycroft could write prose, and well,

B) his handwriting was exquisite, and

C) he'd written Greg into his own story.

Instead of a single man with a cosy night by the fire and a book, there were now two men, sharing good whiskey and comparing novels before... before Greg fell asleep leaning on umbrella man's shoulder.

Greg looked up to see Mycroft capping his pen calmly, a twinkle in his eye. "Er," he ventured, then took a deep breath and decided to go for it - this was an opening if ever he saw one, and he might never get this chance again. "I believe you said your assistant gave us the entire day off? Including the evening?"

Mycroft smiled and tilted his head. "Of course. Why, do you have any ideas of how to spend it, detective inspector?"

Standing up, Greg extended his hand to Mycroft, grinning widely. "Why, yes," he replied. "I think I do."


End file.
